on childhood

The childhoods of writers are thought to have something to do with their vocation, but when you look at these childhoods they are in fact very different. What they often contain, however, are books and solitude, and my own childhood was right on track.

Children are made of awe. We have much to learn from them, but we seldom aim to. When we encounter the freedom of a child, we can choose to participate in their liberation or we can grow to resent the freedom in them.

My children were leading me back to the world of childhood. They demanded new ways of being. Silliness. Cuddles. Repetition. Echoes. Some of it was painful and boring, some of it was magical. Spontaneity and surprise were key attributes of these babies’ employees. They had no time for self-doubt. They were exactly who they wanted to be. They wanted